John and Sherlock MiniFictions
by akaAuroraBorealis
Summary: A collection of very short stories about John and Sherlock.  I write romance/slash, so that's what they'll be.
1. To Have and Have Not

**To Have and Have Not: John's Dream**

John knows exactly when the dreams started. It was the day he met Sherlock in the lab at St. Barts Hospital. Sherlock had been dazzling and brilliant and enigmatic and charming and, well, frankly, just a little theatrical. Because Sherlock, whom he'd never met before that moment, after telling John a good part of John's own life story, seemingly out of the blue, departed with a wink. Not a wave, not a "see you later", but a wink. The dreams were definitely a result of that wink.

In the dream John is sitting in his chair at Baker Street. Decked out in a natty dark suit and crisp white shirt, something more out of Sherlock's wardrobe than his own, John, uncharacteristically, is smoking a cigarette. Well, he's not exactly smoking it, more like holding it nonchalantly in his right hand, and the smoke curls as it floats upwards giving his familiar living room an air of mystery and portent. Then he sees him, Sherlock, tall and pale and full of purpose, gliding across the room towards him.

Sherlock is wearing his well-worn silk bathrobe, the one he often wears about their flat when he's not working on a case. Although, in this dream, unlike reality, Sherlock's pajama bottoms and tee-shirt are absent, so that John, through his dream-eyes, gets a good look at the long alabaster v of Sherlock's chest, framed by the plunging neckline of the robe, as well as Sherlock's long, lithe, well-muscled calves, calves that appear more shapely yet on those occasions when John's dream-Sherlock is also wearing four-inch heels.

Sherlock is close now, looking down at him, the force of his personality burning through the small space of air between them, so that John can almost hear the atmosphere sizzle and pop.

"You know, John, you're not very hard to figure—only at times." Sherlock, bending down low and close, all but sitting in John's lap, continues, "Sometimes I know exactly what you're going to say—most of the time."

Sherlock leans in and kisses John. The kiss, just a press and blend of lips, is long and sweet and searching all the same. John's brain churns with a thrilling mix of shock and wonderful possibilities, yet he finds himself half-frozen, transfixed by Sherlock's spell. When Sherlock pulls back, John's head is still spinning and he's breathing hard.

"What'd you do that for?" John squeaks out as calmly as he can, still a little flustered by the brazen but so artful advance of his friend and flatmate.

Sherlock replies coolly, seductively, "I was wondering whether I'd like it."

John, eyes, now large with hope and longing, can only ask, "What's the decision?"

Sherlock remains cool, but his eyes too, dark with desire, betray his interest. "I don't know yet."

He leans in and kisses John again. This time John is kissing back, his hand reaching up to the back of Sherlock's head, pulling him closer so as to claim the deeper, more open kiss now on offer.

Sherlock pulls away slowly. With a rakish smile he says, "It's even better when you help."

Without an explanation, Sherlock stands up and drifts towards the door where he turns and pauses, holding John captive with a smoldering stare. His robe shimmers in the dim light as he leans his long body lightly against the doorframe. (At this particular moment, dreaming John is always happiest when Sherlock is, in fact, wearing heels.)

"I'm off on a case. If you need me, just whistle." Then, adding fuel to John's fire, he says, "You know how to whistle don't you, John. You just put your lips together and blow."

John's lips involuntarily pucker and, even now, at 221B, he sometimes wakes up to the sound of his own long low whistle echoing off the walls of his bedroom. And sometimes, when the dream has been particularly vivid, John's whistle is loud enough to cause Sherlock, who sleeps like the dead, to stir and shift in his slumbers beside him.

_Note: This story is very largely based on a very famous scene from the movie, To Have and Have Not staring Humphry Bogart and Lauren Bacall. You can watch this scene in a video I found on Youtube with the title Lauren's Best Lines. I highly recommend it._


	2. One Hundred Days

**One Hundred Days**

One hundred days, one hundred nights, to know a man's heart (and a little more before he knows his own)*

**Why He Watches**

It has been one hundred days since Dr. John Watson moved in, decided that, yes, he would in fact take that upstairs bedroom at 221B Baker Street. And for all that time, Sherlock Holmes, the logical, aloof, and decidedly brilliant consulting detective, occupant of the main floor bedroom, has been watching, watching John.

Of course Sherlock watches John with his eyes. He watches how John walks, how he stands, how he dresses, how he eats, how he cooks, how he tidies, how he limps, how he runs, how he smiles, how he grimaces, how he fetches, how he carries, and how he fights. But, as the days progress, more and more, Sherlock watches him in a way he watches no one else. He watches John Watson with his heart. And what he sees, when he looks that way, at John, who makes him look, who makes him see, like no one else Sherlock has ever known, those things he sees in that unassuming doctor, a man deemed "ordinary" by so many others, even by those who know John and really like him, those things never cease to amaze and surprise and delight the once jaded detective.

No one would say this now, but there was a time when people said that Sherlock Homes had no emotions, no heart. This simply was not true. He did, even before he met John. He just found them to be discordant with the core of his life, his work, the systematic, unbiased, ruthless pursuit of the truth, which was, to Sherlock, the whole of his existence. And, as a practical and logical being, Sherlock could see no point in wasting precious time and energy on small, trivial feelings, be it for acquaintances, colleagues, or the great unwashed (as he saw the rest of the world, including the queen). So he stored them up and away, out of mind, like leftovers in a fridge, where they staled and molded and decayed into nothing recognizable, at which point he did the practical and logical thing; he tossed them out. And that was how he operated, until John Watson entered his life, and made him do things, see things, and feel things a little differently.

**What I See**

What I see when I look at him, this small man, not classically handsome, yet beautiful all the same, as English as tea and scones and rain on roses, what I see is something new.

He's small, to be sure, but his smallness is sturdy and welcoming, no, more like challenging, bidding me, even daring me to come closer, lower, nearer to those eyes, that look at me as if I have something the world needs, something only I can give. But, more arresting still, he looks at me as if I have something he needs, for himself, for those eyes alone, something he will claim, someday.

And those eyes, broad-set and round with fearless curiosity, are cool dark pools of unknown depths. There's Afghanistan in there, in those pools, if you only take the time to look, really look, the pain but the compassion too, but mostly the hope, the determination that the world will be better.

And I'd stake my life on it, that as long as there is breath in his body, John Watson will work and fight to make the world better, for his eyes tell me so, as the doctor, the man warm and open, competent and sure, who's found at the surface, in the shallows, or as the soldier, the darker John, who lurks out of sight in the depths, ready to rise when called, steely eyed, steady handed, hard as flint, who will do those things the more measured doctor will not.

It's the doctor I see every day, the one who looks after me, with cups of tea and hot meals and words that sooth or ward off the petty irritants of life. But it's the soldier whom I long to awaken, the savvy campaigner who knows that life is short and that death is final and that its often nearer than you know. It's this brass—bold warrior who knows me best, this brother in arms, with his gun at the ready, wielded as surgically, as judiciously as a scalpel, swift and sure, my accomplice, my protector, my only friend, my love.

But there's more yet to my John, for the hint of cheekiness, the quick dry wit, ready to tease or coax or scold, is lurking not in the eyes but below in those thin but so sweetly expressive lips, the pink of which seems to be sliding inward, so that, if I wish to follow, I need do it quickly, for it's elusive, like prey, like cool water pouring into a desert, draining down into the sandy aquifer below. I haven't followed, not yet, but if I do, touch softly those lips with mine, then perhaps I'll hear that soft tenor sigh, my name (please, let it be that), because when the man speaks, whatever he says, whether laughing or boiling with rage, comes ringing clear and melodic, church bells if those could sound as playful and impish as they do sweet and tender.

And if I were to explore those charms he keeps hidden beneath layers of jacket and knitwear, tucked out of sight like the fury and passion cloaked beneath layers of decorum and cool confidence, I would find the fire, sparking and smoldering, just beneath the surface, ready to burn down all of London if it were ever stoked and fanned, and I will find a way, the way he likes it and wants it and need it, because I am watching my John, and now, since I watch with my heart, I will find a way.

*_song by Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings. I love this song and have long thought the title would make a good John/Sherlock romantic slash fiction title, even though the lyrics actually are cautionary and talk of the man having a change of heart._


	3. Comfort and Care

**Comfort and Care**

The blows rang in his ears, loosened his teeth, scraped at his skin, and it wasn't even he who was getting hit. It was John, his John, the one that no one touches but him and certainly not like that.

When the fog of rage finally lifted, Sherlock could see that John, though bleeding, would be OK. Not so for the pulpy mess that had been his assailant. Still, the words "excessive force" and "reconstructive surgery" along with the rest of the tedious interview with Lestrade made no impact on Sherlock, left him feeling neither satisfaction nor remorse. Now neutralized, the petty thief was nothing to him, less than the dirt under his feet. There was only John, injured and exhausted, patiently standing by the cab, ready to go home and receive the kind of comfort and care that only Sherlock could give.

John lay on the couch—Sherlock had insisted. John, he had argued, would be easier to observe there than in his bed, their bed. And, although the paramedic had checked John over thoroughly and found only abrasions and contusions, Sherlock was not satisfied until he saw for himself.

Sherlock went over John with a fine-toothed comb. He checked John's pulse, listened to his heart, felt his bones (all 206 of them) one by one, and examined his pupils for signs of shock. John could not help but enjoy the attention, but after the second cognition test offered up a half-hearted protest.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Just need some rest."

But Sherlock would not, could not stop. His restless hands kept checking and testing and probing. They fluttered from John's forehead (cool for now) to his feet, removing forgotten shoes, to his carotid artery, where John's pulse seemed to quicken beneath his touch. Seeing Sherlock's eyebrows knit, John smiled.

"It's you, love. Your hands."

This made sense. Sherlock knew about how closely John watched his hands. He'd observed John tracking them from the early days of their relationship, far before they had become intimate. His hands were how John kept tabs on Sherlock's mood. Agitated, Sherlock's hands flitted about, fingers stretched into the air like filaments of spider webs feeling for faint vibrations. When Sherlock was happy, serene, his hands curled loosely, gracefully, often around a violin bow or sometimes around the nape of John's neck as they sat together in the evenings on the couch. And when Sherlock was concentrating, he tented his hands before his mouth as if trapping the thoughts inside so they could fully gestate before escaping his lips to dazzle the world.

And to John, Sherlock's smooth ivory-colored hands, large but sensitive, explored the world like two bold and curious creatures with minds of their own. And when he experienced these curious creatures exploring his person, in bed or tonight upon the couch, he found them to be incredibly erotic.

But tonight, Sherlock's hands were also worried, fretful, working the atmosphere into a lather. John's eyes were getting heavy with sleep, but those hands, so sensual in their grace yet so full of tension, would not let him rest.

"Please, Sherlock, relax," he wanted to say, but John was so tired that all he could manage was a low moan of exhaustion.

The sound struck Sherlock stock still. His breath shallowed as he gazed upon John's mouth, those familiar lips parting ever so slightly as John began to relax into sleep. Looking from his own hands to that sweet mouth, Sherlock's brilliant mind made a connection.

Sherlock perched himself gingerly upon the edge of the couch and extended his right hand until it was just a centimeter from John's lips. He could feel John's warm breath tickle the near-invisible hairs on his hand. Wanting more, he moved his hand in whisper close. John, eyes closed and half-asleep, responded by drawing in a sharp breath as his mouth opened a fraction more. Sherlock waited. An exhale followed, a heartbroken "oh" of disappointment, and Sherlock's fingers, heeding the call, entered, sliding slowly across the yielding lower lip and tips of teeth, and across that warm wet expanse of tongue, John's active and curious equivalent to Sherlock's hands.

Slowly John closed around Sherlock's fingers in a tight embrace, his tongue rising up to cradle and stroke. A deep rumble, originating in Sherlock's throat, rippled through him, causing tiny pulses to escape his fingertips. Thus stimulated, John's tongue began rutting against those long smooth digits as he sucked them in greedily, then allowed them to slide out a fraction before claiming them again.

Sherlock had never thought of his own fingers as anything other than tools, admittedly his most important ones (along with his eyes and brain), but tools none the less. But now, seeing John partake of them like a rare delicacy, then relinquish them just a wee bit so he could repeat the act, consuming Sherlock over and over until Sherlock's fingers became loose and compliant over his kneeding tongue, Sherlock's body and brain no longer tense with concern, his fingers no longer completely his but shared, mutually savored, Sherlock was more than a little aroused. But, no, he would hold that thought; because tonight that talented mouth and tongue were doing something more impressive still. John had found a way, via Sherlock's fingers, to making a direct connection to Sherlock's brain, soothing it, reassuring it. Even injured, exhausted, and nearly asleep, John was taking care of him.

Sherlock rose, careful not to disturb the blissful ministrations to his hand, climbed onto the couch, and positioned himself behind his lover. Now fully asleep but still sucking away, softly, tenderly, John rolled on to his side to spoon. Sherlock closed his eyes but stayed awake a good hour, logging and classifying all the new sensations for future use, perhaps tomorrow in their bed where he now longed to once again watch his own fingers disappearing into John, or perhaps on a hatefully boring day when he found himself alone and needing to remember how lucky he was to have someone who cared. With John's heartbeat thudding through his ribcage and the rhythmic sucking of John's mouth beginning to slow, Sherlock drifted off to sleep, the sleep of the loved.

-fin-


	4. Waiting

**Waiting**

_Post Reichenbach Falls, Sherlock's view. An homage to the Raymond Carver poem by the same name._

From death it's a long walk, through years of secrecy, travel, rough and furtive, down interminably long roads, bleak passages strewn with the bodies of your enemies howling in protest, some from jail, some from the grave, each one a reminder of your choice, of where you are and where you are not, midnight wanderings past fallow fields and obscure towns, foreign in their ways and tongue, places warm and hospitable yet unable to thaw your too-numb heart, on ice for the duration 'til the _necessary_ is done, kept frozen, vigilantly, lest the temptation of vengeance catch hold and corrupt you past redemption.

But now, back in England, back in London, your steps quicken with new spring, new life while passing Regents Park, its boating pond reflecting a hard thin ghost of yourself, then past the Chinese whose faint familiar odors churn up memories so powerful they almost knock you flat, but you press on, your strides lengthening and you feel as if your almost floating down Baker Street, past the sign for Speedy's and up the stoop to the door, the black one, address shining in bronze, the same one you have opened countless times in fevered dreams of home.

You enter quickly, without hesitation, otherwise your life will be ruined forever, but remember to take the stairs, all 17 of them, silently, because you feel it's always your duty to surprise and amaze him, even now when it's least appropriate, perhaps even hurtful. But you do it anyway because then, when you open the door and see him emerge from the kitchen, forehead furrowed all the more from the press of time, those three years of undeserved grief, you'll see the shift (just the start of your penance), excruciating in its slowness, the cycle of shock-anger-hurt playing over and over across his face in an unending loop. But you wait for it to end, and it does, because John, the one who loves you and is stronger than you'll ever be, at last sighs and, with a hint of that easy smile that puts the sun to shame, says, "What's kept you?"

_**Waiting**__** by Raymond Carver**_

_Left off the highway and  
>down the hill. At the<br>bottom, hang another left.  
>Keep bearing left. The road<br>will make a Y. Left again.  
>There's a creek on the left.<br>Keep going. Just before  
>the road ends, there'll be<br>another road. Take it  
>and no other. Otherwise,<br>your life will be ruined  
>forever. There's a log house<br>with a shake roof, on the left.  
>It's not that house. It's<br>the next house, just over  
>a rise. The house<br>where trees are laden with  
>fruit. Where phlox, forsythia,<br>and marigold grow. It's  
>the house where the woman<br>stands in the doorway  
>wearing the sun in her hair. The one<br>who's been waiting  
>all this time.<br>The woman who loves you.  
>The one who can say,<br>"What's kept you?"_


	5. His Face In the Wind

**His Face In the Wind: a 221b**

When John said, "yes", he'd take the room, that's when things really changed. And none too soon. Since the war John had been slowly turning to clay.

He didn't really know why Sherlock, of all people, wanted him. He only knew that, beneath that abrasive façade, the detective was open in ways John was still closed up tight.

"Interested?"

"Oh, god yes."

Soon John's cane, the one he'd used to balance the chip on his shoulder and support the weight of his grief, became obsolete. The war receded. It became "I use to" instead of "I can't any more". Good thing too. Anger and self-pity made for an ill-fitting suit.

But, why?

Sherlock was like a stiff ocean breeze on a hot day. John leaned into him, let him dry his sweat and his tears, then got himself all hot and bothered just to do it all over again.

John loved to feel the force of Sherlock, invisible yet powerful like the wind, press upon his chest, whip between his legs, ruff his hair, moan into his ears. Pointless? Aimless? No. The wind knows where it's going. Being buffeted about was a freedom John had never known, would never give up.

John was a soldier again; a doctor too. He was his. He was whole; as if he'd never been broken.


	6. Won't Be Leaving

**Title:** Won't Be Leaving

**Rating: **PG

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 2,364

**Summary:** John and Sherlock's reunion and reconcilliation three years after Sherlock's "death" at Reichenbach Falls. A little angst, a little romance, and some music.

* * *

><p><strong>Won't Be Leaving<strong>

_Well it's cold and it's raining. Midnight cars roll down the street._

_Streetlight shines in the gutter, and you've gone off to sleep._

_Baby, I sit up smoking, wipe the ashes off the bed._

_Think of what you told me and the words I never said._

_Won't be leaving, won't be leaving, anymore.* _

_POV: John_

Sherlock, love, I know you're sleeping, but this is the only way I can talk to you. And I really need to talk. You see, I look at you now, and I see the man I knew, the one who's open and brave enough to tell me what he thinks, even if he knows it'll make me mad as hell. But come morning, I know I'll find that other poor sod, brilliant and charming and gorgeous as ever, but so numb and distant I hardly recognize him. Because it's a show Sherlock. I can read you, always could, and there's no feeling behind that smile. It's like you're a tree covered with dead limbs that hides its one living part inside a thick trunk, but for the life of me I can't get past all those scratchy branches and thick bark. I need in, Sherlock, and soon.

But, Christ, I'm no better. I mean, look at me. Three years and I haven't smiled once. Couldn't if you paid me. It's like I'm one of those desert pools, so alkaline I'm poison, and I slosh around this city, day after day, so full of tears I can't shed. Not a damned one, Sherlock. Not until…well you remember that night. Anyway, it's like everything I touch or see or hear or taste seems off, somehow, like it's been curdled in all this brine I carry around. And with you back home, reminding me of the old days, it makes it just that much harder to get by with so much less.

But I still love you, you know, you prickly son-of-a-bitch, and I know you love me. That's why I'm so glad to find you here every night, glad that you come join me after I'm asleep. I'll invite you myself soon. That's a promise. But not yet. I'm not ready. You remember what happened last week, and if that ever happened again, I do believe it would kill me. 'Cause when I look at you now, love, I forget it all, everything, except that you're that goddam beautiful angel who played dead for three years just so I would be safe.

*sigh*

I'm just going to move over here. If I try and hold you, the way I used to, shit, I'll just start crying again, and I really need to sleep. Clinic in the morning, you know. Goodnight, love.

_Now a police helicopter flies circles in the sky._

_And I ask myself, baby, could you believe just one more lie._

_Baby, I sit up smoking, wipe the ashes off the bed._

_Think of what you told me and the words I never said._

_Won't be leaving, won't be leaving, anymore.* _

* * *

><p><em>POV: Sherlock<em>

John? John? Not awake then. Fine, that's probably best. I have all day to talk to you when you're awake, but your face, it always looks like it's carrying the weight of the world, and I don't want to say anything that would add to that, so I play it safe and don't say anything at all. I'm trying, John, I really am, to make things right. But I'm not having much luck. We're both so different now. I should have known that everything couldn't be as it was. I miss that, John, more than ever now that I'm back. I miss you, and even though we're back sharing a flat again, I feel like we're still miles apart.

I wish you could see yourself. Everything about you softens when you sleep. You look like you're about eighteen and without a care in the world. Christ, looking at you like this I'm starting to feel like an old letch. I can't wait to see your face tomorrow morning. Lines and all, it's the one I carry in my heart.

I know I rushed things last week. Patience is not my strong suit. But I miss your warmth, your skin, and, most of all, that small gasp you make when you press in—it's like you're surprised every single time how good it feels when we're together. I just thought that, if we could be intimate, then maybe that would speed things along, get us to a better place. But I'd underestimated you again, how much you've been holding in. No wonder you exploded. Even a heart as big as yours can't hold in all that love and anger without getting it a little mixed up. So it's not your fault, John. It's mine, only mine, all of it. I honestly don't know what I would have done if things had been reversed, if you had left me.

*pause*

Don't leave me, John. Ever.

*pause*

So, John, I was thinking that I may just need your help. I always need it for the important things, whether I admit it or not, but now more than ever. You see, the usual routine, working cases together, playing my violin for you, isn't working. And I want to be able to surprise you again, anticipate what you want, what you need. I want to see that look on your face when I give you something amazing and you realize that I do pay attention after all. But that wide open face of yours, that window to your world, is closed, love. And, if I'm reading you right, there is nothing I can bring you, nothing I can show you that will make you smile. Not now. Not when you're like this. So what do I do?

I've been spending my days walking around London, just observing, trying to shake off the dust from those miserable years, to see if I can't look at things afresh. But in the end, the answer's with you, John. It always is.

I'm going downstairs to play now. I know the sound of the Strad grates on you, reminds you of what's been lost. But I need it, just like I need cigarettes and brainwork. I'll see you at breakfast. Maybe if I make you some jam on toast I'll get a smile instead of whatever it is you call that strained expression you've been making instead. It's worth a try. Haven't given up yet, John, my love, and I never will.

*kisses cheek before leaving*

_I see you sleeping, our shoes on the floor_

_and it would be so easy, baby, to slip out the door._

_But if you were awake, love, I swear I would tell you_

_that I won't be leaving, anymore.*_

* * *

><p><em>POV: John<em>

Sherlock missed dinner, but came home around 9:00. His hours have always been erratic, so it doesn't bother me. Actually, it's kind of reassuring that he hasn't changed, at least in that way. Anyway, I was busy trying to think of something to blog about when he asked me the strangest thing. He'd bought a small radio, an expensive one by the looks of it, and wanted to try it out. Of course I told him that was fine.

Actually, I was very relieved. It's the damnedest thing, but ever since his return, whenever Sherlock plays his violin, I get so overwhelmed I have to make a dash for my room before I start weeping uncontrollably. Not for minutes, mind you, but for nearly an hour. When this happens I worry that I've insulted him, of course I do, but what can I say? How can I explain my reaction when I don't quite understand it myself?

I'd assumed he'd put on the classical station as I've never known him to be interested in any other kind of music. But, no, he'd tuned it to a station that plays old R&B and soul and even some blues, if you can believe it. And just as I began writing up some thoughts on childhood vaccination rates, this old Dinah Washington song came on, _Make The Man Love Me_, I think it was.

I looked up and was shocked to find Sherlock standing beside me, hand extended in invitation. It was clear. There was no mistake. He wanted to dance. Well, that was new. And after seeing that disarmingly hopeful expression on his face, I could think of nothing more appealing than to be wrapped up in his arms, to be holding him in mine, all the while rocking and stepping our way across the floor.

So we danced, and it was brilliant! Like some miracle, I could feel the heartache fall away as Dinah crooned and the horn section wailed behind her. The warmth of his body upon my cheek through that silk shirt of his (god I love that one), the feel of those long graceful fingers pressed firmly against my back, the slight rasp of stubble against my temple was all that I knew, all that I cared about. And best of all, I couldn't cry because I was so damned happy!

I looked up because I needed to see his face, which I already knew was smiling—I could feel it. And there they were, those grey blues looking down beneath that dark mop of his. My heart just about leapt out of my chest when I saw that, yes, those eyes were smiling too. And that's when it happened. Out of the blue, I felt them, the words I'd so long repressed, bubbling up without a thought, without a care.

"Next time, promise you'll take me with you."

And, would you believe it, it was Sherlock who was blubbering then, bless him, shoulders heaving even as those long graceful legs of his continued to step lightly to the song. His voice was so low and broken by sobs, but he spoke right into my ear, so I heard every bloody beautiful word.

"I promise, John. If there's leaving to be done, we're both going."

_I hear sirens in the darkness, tell sad stories in the night._

_Could have been me caught red-handed. Could have been me who lost the fight._

_Baby, I sit up smoking, wipe the ashes off the bed._

_Think of what you told me and the words I never said._

_Won't be leaving, won't be leaving, anymore.* _

* * *

><p><em>POV: Sherlock<em>

It came to me as I was passing one of those trendy clubs in Soho. I'd always connected with John through music, specifically by playing the Strad. But, obviously, that was not working. In fact, the violin made John sadder than ever; and, apparently, he isn't someone who benefits from having a good cry. So, when I saw those couples leaving the club, reeking of hormones, hanging all over each other but still swaying to the simple rhythms and emotionally charged chord progressions, I thought I'd give it a try.

Dancing. Together. I didn't know if I would like it, if he would like it. But I knew that John was becoming increasingly unhappy and frustrated since my return. It was only a matter of time before he realized he'd be better off leaving me and starting fresh with someone who wouldn't let him down the way I had, the way I was bound to do again. The price of a radio was a small price to pay to make that man happy, or at least happy enough to stay until I could think of something else.

John seemed surprised at my asking him to dance. But he didn't hesitate. That's my John—he always knows so quickly what he wants, and what he wants is so often right for us both. I must say I was surprised at how good he felt pressed up against me, vertical and fully clothed. Why we'd never tried dancing like this before, just a simple embrace, swaying to music (that surprisingly compelling music), is a mystery. He fit just perfectly, his soft hair brushing against my cheek, his hands resting gently on my hips. And he smelled so good, just like I remembered. Best of all, I could feel him relax, melt into me. It gave me cause to hope for what I wanted most, his trust and his forgiveness. But things had been so strained between us, I dared not ask. Then John, he must have known because he looked up and said these words, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Next time, promise you'll take me with you."

I'm not really sure why, whether it was because, again, John had dared to be so brave for the sake of us both; or whether it was because I knew now that he wasn't going to leave me; or whether it was because I was just so relieved that the hell of those last three years was finally behind us, but I was totally overcome with emotion. I was almost completely incapacitated by wave after wave of choking sobs that kept rising out of my chest. But regardless of my condition, John, my John, deserved an answer. So, using what was left of my voice, I gave him one.

"I promise, John. If there's leaving to be done, we're both going."

We swayed through the song, and then another, and another. All the while I clutched him tightly, sobbing into his shoulder like child. But I felt better, so much better than I had in a long time. Apparently, unlike John, I am one of those who benefits from a good cry.

By the fourth song I had recovered enough to think about leaving again, with John of course. The only question was whether we should go to the south of France or to the south of Wales. But before I could decide, John, that clever man, had taken my hand and was leading me upstairs. Well, he had forgiven me, so it was only right to let him choose our first destination.

_Won't be leaving, won't be leaving, anymore. _

_Won't be leaving, won't be leaving...*_

_*song I Won't Be Leaving__ written by Dave Alvin._

-fin-


	7. His Way

**Title:** His Way

**Rating: **G

**Pairings:** none

**Word Count:** 221

**Summary:** 221B format: 221 words last one beginning with the letter "b". John recovers a memory stick stolen by Irene Adler.

_Written in honor of Martin Freeman's birthday._

**His Way**

"Just grab it, John!" Sherlock yelled above the din of the helicopter.

Irene, dressed in a low-cut cashmere sweater and short min-skirt was standing by the open window, waiting to make her escape.

"I can't, Sherlock. You saw where she put it."

Irene had handcuffed Sherlock to the radiator before stuffing the memory stick far down her cleavage.

"Then twist her arm and make her give it to you," Sherlock demanded.

"I can't! She's a woman," John explained apologetically.

"Well, for god's sake, do something. The helicopter's almost here. We'll never get another chance to recover that document." Sherlock vibrated with frustration.

John looked about helplessly for inspiration while Irene smiled in triumph.

Then, struck by an idea, John advanced.

"Stay back!" Irene warned.

John kept coming until they were separated by inches.

"You wouldn't dare," she taunted.

John smiled knowingly.

With one smooth move, he pulled the villainess into a tight embrace. She didn't struggle but glared in defiance. He returned the stare, and Irene's face softened as she watched his large blue eyes wander to her mouth. Their kiss was smoldering, but Irene still managed to leap into her awaiting ride.

"The memory stick?" yelled Sherlock. John opened his hand to show the spoils.

"Three continents of experience."

Out the window they could hear her fury.

"Oy! Where's my bra?"


	8. His Eyes Are Not Windows

**Title:** His Eyes Are Not Windows

**Rating: **G

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 221

**Summary:** 221B format: 221 words last one beginning with the letter "b". How John sees Sherlock's eyes.

**His Eyes Are Not Windows**

His eyes are not windows. Or if they are, they are tinted or even reflective. The curious will see at most his own countenance and remain as ignorant as before, no nearer to understanding the mind of the man, never mind his soul. No, his eyes are more like floodlights, bringing a murky world into 72 megapixel focus. Or they are scalpels, as good for parsing the truth as for cutting out the hearts of his enemies. Not that he would, but they don't know that. How could they?

John's not like everyone else. He's not afraid of Sherlock's eyes. In fact he seeks them out. He likes to feel his own retinas burning under their scorching caress, to feel his own dull-gray self burst into dazzling color, sharp-edged and detailed, to experience life as it should be and not how it usually is. Sherlock can do that for him, remotely, without laying a finger on him, gloved or otherwise.

But John is also aware that Sherlock's eyes can be devastating. He experienced it that night at Angelo's. "I'm married to my work," Sherlock had said. The words themselves, a disappointment. But it was those eyes, Sherlock's eyes, as they pulled away ever so gently and slid down-cast to the floor, that left John's heart so utterly besotted, so achingly bereft.


	9. Fell From Heaven

**Title:** Fell From Heaven

**Rating: **PG

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 221 + 221 + 221 + 221

**Summary:** 221B format: 221 words last one beginning with the letter "b". An army mate of John's shows up and everything changes at Baker Street.

**Fell From Heaven: Part 1 of 4**

_An insane tale told in four 221bs. For the record I, the author, denounce this story and others featuring babies at Baker Street._

It was if she had fallen from heaven. Celeste, all of five feet high, blue eyes framed by bouncing black curls, lit up the Baker Street flat like a ray of sunshine. Curious, because she'd soldiered for two years, a medic in Afghanistan, and, like John, had seen enough trouble for a lifetime. Nowadays she found her trouble as an EMT riding ambulances through the Borough of Westminster.

John had known her husband. He'd operated on him, managing to save his thumb from amputation. Leon, crazy bastard, had returned to duty as soon as he'd recovered. John wasn't surprised: special forces guys are all like that.

Both John and Celeste were civilians living in London when Leon's Humvee was obliterated by an IED. When Celeste heard the news, she cried for two weeks. Then, forever the soldier, she went to back work. Her motto: "Being useful is better than being dead." She smiled when she said it. "Take that Death, ya bony bastard!" That was the other part.

To John's surprise, Sherlock liked Celeste. A lot. He said she was a dark-haired female John. "But," he clarified, "I do not wish to have sex with her". "Me neither," John replied. Sherlock could not hide his relief. Things became more interesting when, over dinner, Celeste asked if they would father her baby.

**Fell From Heaven: Part 2 of 4**

A seemingly sane woman had just asked them for what? Sperm donations? John was stunned. Sherlock had questions.

Celeste, now misty-eyed, took the hand of each and explained. She was thirty-eight. Leon was gone. There'd been no one else like him and may never be. But she was OK with that. They'd had a good ten years together and she had but one regret—they never had a child. So when she'd received the news, that the tumor was inoperable, slow-growing but fatal, she began visiting her old army mates. Because who else should bring up the child of a medic? Who else could handle her death, help a child do the same? Who could possibly understand and be willing to say "yes"? An hour with John and Sherlock and Celeste knew she'd found her guys.

They had all night to talk. Next morning she'd be back for their decision.

How do you tell your lover you want something this important? Slowly. Carefully. Maybe not with words. Maybe instead you take him gently, sweetly, then with a sudden urgency that catches you off-guard, has you crying out, "God, I want this, Sherlock. Say yes!" before you realize you've exposed yourself to heartache.

The next morning John and Sherlock, giggling, greeted their guest with two full specimen cups and a turkey baster.

**Fell From Heaven: Part 3 of 4**

Mycroft was incensed. This was madness. John and Sherlock were among the last people who should be responsible for a child, not for a day let alone a lifetime. They were often in danger, usually by their own choosing. They kept odd hours. Each had experienced depressive episodes in the past. Their flat was littered with weapons, chemicals, and biohazards. And Sherlock, while not really a sociopath, was still a handful, even for the resourceful John. Anyone could see that adding a child to this mix was insane.

Realizing his intervention was a day late, Mycroft, ever adaptive, quickly changed his tune. Within a week he'd organized an intricate support network. Mrs. Hudson, her niece, and Harry would babysit. He and Lestrade would act as joint heads of the household security team. He'd also worked out the child's finances and education, but tactfully dropped the matter when Sherlock started to bristle.

Celeste would share custody, of course. Everyone agreed that it was best she spent as much time as she could with the child while she was able. But they could not ignore the inevitable. The baby's home would be Baker Street from the start.

After the child was born, Mycroft, who once saw Celeste as trouble, now always greeted her with a kiss to the forehead, his thanks and benediction.

**Fell From Heaven: Part 4 of 4**

The baby was perfect. That is to say, it was born bald, wrinkly, blotchy, and squished. Other than that, it looked exactly like its mother.

They named him Leon, in memory of Celeste's husband. The middle name they left blank. It had been Sherlock's idea that they would choose the middle name after they had determined whether John or Sherlock's sperm had "done the deed". If he grew to be sturdy calm fellow with a yen for jam and deadly aim, the middle name would be Sherlock. If he grew to be sensitive, brilliant, volatile, and musical, the middle name would be John. But the child was coy, and after two years no one was the wiser.

Harry doted on him. Every week she stopped by with a new outfit, brightly colored knits that had strangers cooing over the "pretty girl". Leon didn't mind. Neither did his fathers, usually.

The shirt was hot orangey pink. John had to say something.

"It suits his dark curls," Harry explained.

Leon toddled over and whispered in John's ear. Like a madman, John jumped to his feet, grinning, and began doing a victory dance.

"Ha! It's John!"

"What?" asked Harry, confused.

"The color!" shouted John, ecstatic.

"Pink?"

"First bloody word: _Begoniaceae_." John pointed to the orange-pink flower on the windowsill.

"The genus name for begonia."

_Written for Ms. Verity Burns who said she would be interested in reading a 221b ending in the word "begonia". This composite story also included the last words "baby", "baster", and "benediction". _


	10. UnFashionable

**Title:** Un-Fashionable

**Rating: **R for language

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 221

**Summary:** 221B format: 221 words last one beginning with the letter "b". Sherlock and John go undercover in the shallow world of haute couture. Written in response to some hurtful comments made about the talented Mr. Cumberbatch who we all know is practically perfect in every way.

**Un-Fashionable**

When Sherlock explained the case, John had no objections. It was just "dress-up", right? The designer had hired Sherlock to find out who was stealing his designs during the controlled chaos of his shows. Their cover? Sherlock would model. John would be his makeup artist. What a lark!

"How about this?" John asked wearily, modeling low-slung jeans barely suspended by a rhinestone-studded belt. Sherlock insisted male makeup artists shared a common look.

"Still too heterosexual," Sherlock pronounced, disappointed. "We'll have to hope that doing your brows will at least get you to bi. The only time you look remotely gay is when my cock…"

"Sherlock!" John flushed before retreating to the safety of the changing-room.

Sherlock practiced his model's walk. John could not believe how good he was. A low reverent "damn!" was his reply to the precise but sensual sway of Sherlock's arms and legs, his provocatively canted hips. Sherlock's modeling face, however, John found disturbing, breathtakingly beautiful yet unfamiliar in its otherworldliness.

"Who hired him?" the assistant demanded. "Too old. Half a stone overweight. Maybe this collar will distract from those eerie eyes and horsey face."

Oblivious, Sherlock caught his thief.

Home.

Without explanation, John convinced Sherlock to dress in tee-shirt and jeans. Now content, John's pent-up rage dissolved into fierce kisses and passionate invectives: "Fashion's just fucking blind!"


	11. Luxurious Things

**Title:** Luxurious Things

**Rating: **PG

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 1,150 ish

**Summary:** Cracky. John and Sherlock find themselves in a fur vault. And then there's the bit about John's dream.

**Luxurious Things**

"Sherlock," said John in a harsh whisper, "I thought you said we had the owner's permission to be here."

It was just after midnight, and it started to seem to John that the "quick look around" the luxury clothing store was going to cut into his sleep time after all.

For they'd only just arrived when, hearing footsteps and the jangling of keys, Sherlock had dragged him into the only reasonable hiding place, a five meter by seven meter fur vault. Well at least it was winter so they were appropriately dressed for the 7 degree C temperature inside.

"One owner gave us permission. The other is a suspect, hence the late visit. And there's no need to whisper. The walls of this vault are solid concrete and the steel door is over eight centimeters thick. We could say….or do… just about anything without fear of being caught."

The twinkle in Sherlock's eyes, the mischievous smile on his lips; John knew that look. He usually liked that look, even lived for that look. But because they were, at that moment, surrounded by two rows of furs; mink, sable, ermine, and fox; all property of their client and all worth more than he made in three months working at the clinic, that look made John nervous.

"And if whoever's in the shop decides to come in here?" John asked, trying to look cool and collected even though his _voice of reason_ had come out sounding a mite breathless.

With a self-satisfied smirk, Sherlock took a simple rubber shim from his pocket and wedged it beneath the door.

"Taken care of. You know, John, I've always liked luxury furs. Mummy used to let me try on hers." Sherlock's voice was a low, wistful purr.

John arched his eyebrows and grinned, amused at the mental picture of his sweetheart's early adventure in cross-dressing. Sherlock ignored him and, instead, began inspecting the coats.

"I was quite young and, purportedly, stubborn. The only way she could get me to bathe was to let me try her mink coat on afterwards. And _that, _John,is how I came to learn how _uniquely wonderful_ fur feels against bare skin." Eyes half-closed, Sherlock ran a plush mink sleeve across his cheek.

John couldn't decide if it was right to be turned on as he watched Sherlock begin to disrobe, slowly, as he walk up and down between the lines of coats, stroking them appreciatively with those long, exquisite fingers. One of the reasons their romantic relationship worked was that they never let it interfere with a case. Or at least that was always the intention. Once in a while one of them would slip, but so far the other had always caught him. Finding himself in the roll of the "catcher", John began giving himself a silent stern talking-to about the value of delayed gratification and the all-importance of Sherlock's work. However he found his inner voice stuttering with distraction as Sherlock, now dressed only in pants, let out a low groan of appreciation as he pulled a snow-white floor-length ermine coat off its hanger. John may have groaned too as, seconds later, the pants were discarded and Sherlock and coat were one.

"We can't." John shook his head and held his hands out in a gesture of helpless appeasement as Sherlock, all mischief and desire, advanced on him in the dimly lit vault. Those black curls and ice blue eyes seemed to hover above the soft flutter of white fur.

"Can't what, John?"

The mere question immediately brought three favorite positions (his and Sherlock's) to mind, each made that much more tempting by the addition of the long soft fur.

It was clear to John that Sherlock was not to be diverted from his purpose of driving John so insane with want and that, very shortly, John would have little choice but to agree to an act of carnal knowledge in this secluded fur-lined heaven. John had no illusions—he would give in. Now, while his mind was still relatively clear, was the time to shift his focus to damage control. Even the smell of the pelts, a pleasant, sensual musk, was starting to get to him. John figured he had about a minute before he stopped giving a damn. Grabbing the most persuasive weapon at his disposal, John took control.

"Condoms, love. That's all I ask. And this (John held up Sherlock's discarded purple shirt) for when things get messy. The rest, I'll let you decide. Just watch the merchandise, eh?"

"Oh, I will," said Sherlock, his eyes fixed on John's lips, now moist from an anticipatory lick.

John found the events of his evening to be soft and warm, a little tickly but quite wonderful. And, thanks to his moment of forethought, not _too_ wet.

* * *

><p>It was three AM before John and Sherlock rolled into bed back at Baker Street. John let out a deep, satisfied sigh as his head hit the pillow.<p>

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John murmured as he felt beneath his t-shirt those familiar hands, large and restless, sweep small circles across his skin. It had taken a while for John to get used the fact that, even in his sleep, Sherlock investigated.

"Oh well", John though, sleep closing in fast, "at least he doesn't snore."

In no time at all, John was dreaming. Not about Afghanistan and the war. No, it was a delightful, whimsical dream, the kind he was having more often now that he and Sherlock were sharing a bed.

In the dream John was sleeping in his bed, as he really was, but he was not with Sherlock. Joining him instead were two snow-white ermine, miniature ones with beautifully almond shaped ice-blue eyes that padded about in constant motion, exploring different areas of his person and talking non-stop about where they should den up for the night.

"Mmm, this part's soft."

"Not enough room."

"Did you notice that he's warmer up there?"

"Yes, of course I did. He's toasty up there, like a furnace."

"Not too bright, is he?"

"No, but he's soft. Did you visit his middle? It's lovely. Like a plush featherbed over a taught, firm mattress."

"Oh, yes. Very comfortable, that area."

"So, no experiments tonight?"

"No. Tomorrow perhaps. Let's kip here."

"Shall I groom him?"

"No, no, he might wake up, and he needs lots of sleep or he'll get stroppy. And remember, he's not that bright. Needs to be firing on all cylinders to keep up."

"Yes. But I like him."

"Me too. He's lovely."

"And he smells nice."

"Yes, very nice. Budge over."

"Ah, soft!"

Before drifting deeper, beyond the reach of dreams, John felt the two creatures settle in, lightly, softly, one on his chest and the other under his chin, their fragile little hearts finding comfort as they slept in the strong, steady beat of his own.

-fin-

_Author's note: I, myself, am not into furs and what's done to the animals to get them. But I do understand how people can get very excited by fur garments as they do feel marvelous. Apologies to any reader who was offended by this story._


	12. Deduce Me, Love

**Title:** Deduce Me, Love

**Rating: **PG

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 221

**Summary:** A story written in the 221b format, 221 words, last word beginning with "b". Sherlock likes deducing John and John enjoys being the object of Sherlock's deductions.

**Deduce Me, Love**

_Deduce me, Love._

That's what he says, not out loud, never out loud in a waste of breath and time.

_When searching for meaning in the wisping clouds or the swirling tealeaves or the cold mirror of a beautiful sociopath's eyes leaves you empty and agitated, frustrated and lost, deduce me._

With his eyes he says it, in open defiance to maddening obsession, in sweet opposition to all reasons for rasping my brain raw, to painful sharpness, against the rough edges of the world.

_Deduce me, Love. Tell me the name of my date, the "not you" for tonight, and I'll smile. Tell me my thoughts as your eyes trace me like the whisper-close path of razor against cheek, like the oh-so-personal intrusion of toothbrush breaching lips, and I'll blush._

Feet planted, arms akimbo, my world pivots around those broad, sturdy hips and I'm kept close, circling in a smooth, easy orbit.

_Deduce me, Love, when you've been pulled and teased apart, your fearsome components flailing about in angry confusion, when you no longer see the beauty and the balance that is you._

A look from him has the power to steady, to calm, to sooth, to warm. An invitation, a dare, and a promise too; it's all that matters at the end of the day. Let the deduction, seduction begin.


	13. The Great Wave

**Title:** The Great Wave

**Rating: **PG-13

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 221

**Summary:** A story written in the 221b format: 221 words, the last word beginning with the letter "b". A story inspired by the color woodblock print by Katsushika Hokusai known as _The Great Wave Off Kanagawa_ (1831 approx). This print depicts several manned fishing boats about to be clobbered by an enormous wave. Mt. Fuji looms passively in the background. The wave, whose large form is repeated in miniature over its surface, is reminiscent of Mendelbrot sets, equations (fractals) that produce increasingly smaller iterations of the main form that go on and on into microscopic infinity. As it turns out, Mendelbrot sets and other fractals are very useful in describing the kinds of complicated forms produced in nature.

**The Great Wave**

The wave was majestic and powerful, nuanced and sublime, a rolling, shifting arc. Upon its surface swam countless tiny iterations of its own frothy form, looking like the fingers of children curled against the pale cheek of sky. These, too, were covered in smaller waves, and on those waves rode others, smaller still. The pattern was too deep, too restless to stop.

Often Sherlock felt that he was the wave, the product of some seismic shift, able to level any barrier by the strength of his will, by the force of his intellect. Other times he felt more like an observer, silent and detached, a lone mountain overlooking a seaside town, watching the wave as it moved from open ocean and into the shallows, where, finally gripping the seafloor, it compressed, rose higher, smashing all boats caught in its path. No malice. No pity. The wave was nature, dispassionate but alive with fearsome symmetry. The mountain, a dormant volcano itself, could appreciate that.

In John, Sherlock saw the wave again, the beautiful rhythm, the surging power, its pulse echoed by his own shivering skin, his own stuttering breath. Undulation upon undulation, the wave built to an astounding height before slamming, thundering, collapsing into shore. This time Sherlock was neither wave nor mountain. This time he was a small and fragile boat.

-fin-

_Author's note: I recommend Googling The Great Wave off Kanagawa. It is quite beautiful._


	14. Capture and Keep

**Title:** Capture and Keep

**Rating: ** PG

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** Mild Season 2, The Reichenbach Fall spoilage.

**Word Count:** 221

**Summary:** A story written in the 221b format: 221 words, the last word beginning with the letter "b". Sherlock's hands, John's hands, and a little Reichenbach angst thrown in.

**Capture and Keep**

Although Sherlock could wrap his hand around John's, covering it completely, he's never done so. He's thought about it, though, how his hand, his right hand, his dominant one, could do that. He's thought about how it would feel to envelope John's hand, to take it for his own, for a moment, maybe longer. Another's hand, Sherlock knew, was something he couldn't control, couldn't own. But, perhaps, he could make John's still for a while, make it feel safe in the firmness of his grasp. Would John let his hand be caged? Sherlock didn't know.

John's hands are much smaller than Sherlock's; short but delicate fingers and broad sturdy palms. Sherlock's felt them pressed lightly, politely against the back of his shirt, felt them skip across his skin while attending his wounds; so nimble, clever, and kind. John's hands are warmer than most. True, the hands Sherlock usually touches belong to corpses, but he does press the flesh when necessary. Still, only John's trusted, familiar hands are intrinsic to Sherlock.

Sherlock's playing dead—has to if John's to live. John wraps his hand, his left hand, his dominant one, around Sherlock's wrist, taking his pulse. Helplessness and desperation are seeping through John's callouses, but Sherlock cannot move, cannot take John's hand. Then suddenly it's gone, escaped, flown off like a bird.


	15. Afterwards

**Title:** Afterwards

**Rating: ** PG

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock (pre-slash or friendship)

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 221

**Summary:** A story written in the 221b format: 221 words, the last word beginning with the letter "b". Post-Reichenbach. John carries on without Sherlock.

**Afterwards**

Afterwards it's hard. Of course it is. He's on his own. Sherlock's dead, gone. Detective work; gone. Baker Street; gone. He's truly a civilian now; a normal bloke. A doctor, not a soldier. Not anymore.

The others, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, even Mycroft, are there for him. John knows this, and he appreciates it. He really does. They won't let him sink like he did after the bullet sent him home from the war. It had been Sherlock who'd pulled him, like a drowning man, back to the surface, back to the light. But John's in no danger now. It's been a year. The grief is still painful, but at least he feels it. He's not numb, not like before and Sherlock, that madman, irritating and seductive, woke him like a cold slap, like a hot kiss. The sear still stirs John's blood. Despite everything that's happened, it still smarts, still feels good. Well, usually.

Mornings can be hard. Getting ready for the day, it's the mirror that betrays him. It's then John misses Sherlock; the only one who ever really saw him. Because the image in the mirror is false; too simple, too plain. There's another, one only Sherlock saw, sharp and complete but hidden, like a latent photograph un-fixed and invisible, dormant within a shimmering film of silver bromide.


	16. Say It!

**Title: **Say It!**  
><strong>

**Rating: **M

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** A modicum of smut, more than my usual.

**Word Count:** 1,030

**Summary:** Sherlock and John are in bed. Sherlock is being a bossy boots. John just wants to sleep.

**Say It!**

"Say it," growled Sherlock through the earlobe he'd caught between his teeth.

On hands and knees, Sherlock loomed over John, straddling him, as predatory and playful as a cat. He'd been at John, teasing him for over five minutes, but John stubbornly refused to engage him and pretended to sleep on. Irregular breath, breaking smile; Sherlock was damned if he'd reward such a pitiful performance. Letting go of John's ear, he shifted his weight, rolling John left then right in the bed.

"Say it, John," Sherlock purred insistently against John's throat.

He leaned in to nuzzle and lick the smooth, air-cooled skin. Meanwhile, all stealth, Sherlock's right hand dove low, seeking the thick-thatched warmth, the prodigious nest of pubes that covered John groin. So was it with Captain John Watson, Sherlock thought; cool and smooth and army-trim on the surface, warm and furred and streelish underneath.

The smell of John, his heat, so close, made Sherlock grow increasingly impatient for a response. Splaying his fingers, he burrowed in deep and gripped. John's eyes flew opened. He glanced at Sherlock, then at the clock on the nightstand, before slamming his eyes back shut.

"Clinic in an hour," John pronounced with military firmness. "Need sleep."

"Say it and I'll let you," Sherlock told John's left nipple.

The puff of air from Sherlock's words caused John to jump. He wriggled in protest and tried to pull up the covers, but they were pinned beneath Sherlock's knees. With a huff of exasperation, John opened his eyes. He frowned and gave Sherlock a withering stare.

"No, you obsessed bastard, you won't."

Sherlock hummed his agreement, lowered his head, and sucked.

John groaned. He tried to push Sherlock off him, but the effort was weak and half-hearted.

"Sherlock, this idea of yours—it's ridiculous." John's breath had begun to hitch. "You're the one with the French grandmother, not me. Besides, I don't look anything like him."

Sherlock let John go with a sticky pop. John's expression had softened a bit, but he still looked far from amenable. Sherlock had more convincing to do. Even though John's cock bumped with interest at the back of Sherlock's hand, Sherlock knew that he was not ready to give in. At least not yet.

"Not here," Sherlock said, stroking a line from John's crown to his chin with his left hand. "Here." Sherlock tightened his low-down grip with his right.

John's eyes widened then narrowed.

"And you know this how?" John sounded somewhat skeptical, somewhat amused, and somewhat aroused.

"Extrapolation, John. He's got quite the virile moustache, not unlike the one you grew last summer."

John giggled, tried again to push Sherlock off, gave up almost immediately, and giggled again.

"For a bet, Sherlock. I grew it for a bet, a bet that I won, if you remember."

"Did you?" Sherlock smiled and slid his hand around the thick base of John's erection.

John groaned again. He stared up at Sherlock with a mix of frustration and desire.

"You're not going to let me sleep, are you?" John said finally, resigned.

"Not until you say it."

"And let you have your wicked way with me," John added, dryly.

Sherlock had begun to stroke John lightly, in the noncommittal way that drove John mad. Indeed, John had begun to arch his back and cant his hips, and his breath was now truly ragged. He'd grasped the bed sheet with both hands in an attempt to steady himself, but it was doing little good.

"Oh, John Watson, how well you know me."

Sherlock added a graze of nail to his stroke, just to show that the opposite was true as well. John groaned a third time and looked up at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention. Sherlock took pity and stilled his hand. Sherlock could feel John relax beneath him; pliant body, pliant mind. Sherlock would get what he wanted.

"Fine. But you have to kiss me first. Properly. Then I'll say it. I promise."

It amused Sherlock to hear John try to negotiate from his weak position, one of near total subjugation. Such pluck deserved a reward, especially one that Sherlock would enjoy too.

Sherlock released his hold and took John's face gently in both hands. He liked looking into John's face when John yielded to him. John's stubborn jaw had gone slack, and his desert-tanned cheeks bore a flush of light pink. And John's eyes… They were so very dark, warm and inviting. But there was something else there in John's eyes, something lurking beneath; an element of untamable mischief that Sherlock found to be absolutely irresistible.

Unable to prolong the moment any longer, Sherlock, slowly, lowered himself into the kiss. He never made it. Before he could react, John's leg came around, hooking Sherlock about the chest and toppling him backwards into an awkward heap. Seconds later, John was perched on top of him—Sherlock was totally immobilized. His bent legs were pinned to the side by the bulk of John's weight, while his back was pressed flat into the mattress by John's forearm, masterfully positioned between Sherlock's windpipe and clavicle. Sherlock could only stare up in admiration at his small blond conqueror.

"Vive la Gaule!" John crowed.

He raised an arm above his head in victory before swinging it down, giving Sherlock's bare arse a resounding smack. Sherlock roared in outraged. Then he laughed so hard that his eyes teared and his stomach ached. John joined him, making whole bed shake. It was a full minute before Sherlock could speak.

"Well, John, you said it, as promised. I knew it would suit you, my diminutive warrior. It doesn't matter that you aren't French-it's the spirit of the thing that matters. Besides, reading Asterix le Gaulois was my forbidden childhood pleasure. You're my adult one. It's only natural that this sort of fetish would develop."

Sherlock ignored John's look of utter bemusement and continued.

"Anyway, to the victor…"

He raised his eyebrows suggestively. John laughed and gave Sherlock a longing look before sighing and shaking his head.

"Later. Tonight," John said, and he planted a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

John hopped out of bed, pulled on his bathrobe, and, with no further ado, headed for the shower. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, listened, and smiled—John was humming La Marseillaise.

-fin-


End file.
